


Ficlets from my Discord journey

by Grain_Crain



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-06 19:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grain_Crain/pseuds/Grain_Crain
Summary: This is a collection of short ficlets I wrote on Discord servers. Some of them are headcannons discussed on chat and written out as ficlets.





	1. Souza's cradle

Here is the explanation of the headcannon from the Discord chat.

  
Capitao owns an orphanage in Brazil and most of his income is spent to maintain the place. It's named 'Souza's cradle' and not many people know that he is the owner because the name Souza is very common. Caveira is the only one who knows. She kinda hates the idea of cap using the money to be sappy, thinking a mere orphanage cant really change the poverty of Brazil but one day she sees a child suffering from bad parenthood in England. As soon as she thinks of how the child would be better off in Capitao's orphanage, she begrudgingly accepts that cap's idea is not too bad after all

He sends Caveira for a three-monthly check up if he can't go there by himself. She hates it when he asks her to go, so when she is at the orphanage the staffs are scared to death. Children call her the sister big tree because of her dark greenish khaki shirts and pants, and also she lets them climb on her when she stands still like a stone statue to monitor the staffs.

She would ask the children too.

"Who makes you happy here?" She asks a group of 4 year olds on her lap. "Aunty Zelita because she gives us cuddles!" They chatter and point at one of the best employees.

"No, uncle Vicente (Capitao) gives you a better one." One of the older children shouts across the room 

Caveira would ask some of the oldest children to tell her which one of the employees have been bad. Since Capitao spends quite a lot of money to hire people with qualification, there aren't that much of rotten apples among the carers. But there are some weird street gangs lurking around the orphanage and those are sort of the things Caveira takes care of.

One of the children who left the orphanage becomes a part of the gang member and almost lures the children from the orphanage into human trafficking. Caveira hunts down the gang and finds the teen girl who used to follow her around when she was a child. At first Caveira gives the girl a warning but one day, some of the children have gone missing. So cav set out to destroy the gang and confronts the teen girl who is like,

"I thought you were different, Taina. I thought you knew how fucked up this world is and how good people just can't survive." The teen girl tries to kill Caveira with guns and knives. This breaks Caveira because she taught her how to fight. In the end Caveira ends up either killing the teen or put her into jail. Below is the ficlet that follows the death of teenager that Caveira has killed.

 

* * *

 

 

Capitao has been wanting to speak to Caveira who had visited his orphanage last week. Catching the woman has been bit of a rat chase and he started to become worried, wondering what happened in Brazil. This is the reason why the sight of her sitting in his dimly lit office startled him. When he asks her of last visit to the orphanage, she spits at his feet.

"How the fuck do you think it went? Just like any typical favela." She describes what happened of her and the teen.

"Stop this child play, Vicente. No matter how fancy and nice that little shack looks, there are flies trying to take a nib on those children." Her voice is low with suppressed anger and disappointment. Those kidnapped children are long gone to somewhere that she couldn't find. Their smiles and the soft texture of those fluffy cheeks haunts her calloused and tethered hands.

"I am not going to stop." As soon as Capitao finishes his response, Caveira digs her fingers into the collar of his shirt and slams him against the wall.

"You naive shithead. That little doll house didn't help her or the children who might be wasting away at this very moment. It might even become a hunting field for those sick fucks out there." Her fists shake as she regrets the very moment of putting a glimpse of hope on the orphanage. She always doubted that those parentless children will have any chance in the outer world, as she views them as flock of sheep to be slaughtered for the darker profits. 

"But it helps the other children. It gives them the food, shleter and a sense of belonging before they find a family." Capitao lets her arms push into his neck. He keeps the eye contact and stays calm, which annoys Caveira.

"Forget about orphanage. We need to go and wipe out those scums. Then think about playing family to the street urchins." The suggestion is supposed to force Capitao out of his tranquil state but his eye doesn't even flinch.

"I know the girl should have been introduced to a proper education. I am working on that right now." He sighs, closes his weary eye and allows Caveira to hold his weight. She frowns at the answer, thinking Capitao sounds similar to one of those politicians that makes false promises about brighter future.

"She is dead. It's too late and you know it. Maybe I should have trained her into BOPE." Mentioning the name of their organisation finally brings some reaction out of him. She didn't expect Capitao to shove her away with harsh force. She staggers away and mouth agape, taken aback at his piercing leer

"Do not." A growl escapes through his teeth.

"BOPE is not a place for young ones and you _know_ it." He shudders and Caveira isn't ignorant of his repulsion towards their team. BOPE has been involved in number of moral controversies but it's still better than being involved in criminal acts.

"Violence cannot be the answer for our next generation." There it is. Caveira rolls her eyes at same old pacifist ideology from Capitao.

"The purpose of the orphanage is to give children the childhood. To have them nurtured until they find better home or become old enough to make a better choice." His words are true to his intentions. Caveira is aware of Capitao's busy life in his office as he sorts out the necessary paper works and such. She sees the bag under his eye but the corruption of a blooming teenager reminded of herself too much.

"Taina. All of us have souls when we are born. Our exteriors change as we grow old but i believe that warmth and compassion will help the souls to grow, especially at young age. Have you ever wondered how people become terrorists and criminals? Have you ever thought of where these abandoned or damaged souls come from? It's because of the wrong-doings from our society and the environment." The wrinkles on the older man appears to be deeper as he throws all these contemplative questions at Caveira.

"A girl died because she sold her house sisters and brothers away, and that is all you can say. Save your religious garbage to the church." She strides out of his room and ignores him calling out to her. She understands what he is saying but the built-up fury from her adolescence is obscuring the truth of his words. How long must the innocent suffer in the selfish structure of rich men? How long does she have to work for the force to completely eradicate those scums from high and low? When will she finally succumb to the madness of causing agony for the sake of 'interrogation'? Would she have not walked this path if she had a better childhood? She doesn't know. She knows nothing other than slashing and shooting flesh and blood. It's something that she is best at, so she can't give up on the way of bloodshed. She _knows_ that this is some blind conviction. She fucking _knows_ that Capitao sees the light in the humanity even though half of his sight is taken away by the violence.


	2. Jackal's trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two separate ficlets combined to show Jackal's trauma and how he mourns about it in the rain.  
> [Jackal/Doc]

Six reported of a small village contested by the terrorists. Along with him and the other operators, they went in for a terrorist hunt. They had no information of civilians there, so Jackal was beyond freaked out when he saw two siblings hiding under a debris of broken down house. The younger was asleep but the older was wide awake. Their eyes met and Jackal saw no fear in the child's eyes. It was a bitter sight to witness a young soul staring at him with sense of defeat.

"Hey. You are okay. Let me get you out." Jackal whispered and reached his hand out, but the child shook her head and pointed at her feet. He noticed the thin limbs already bloody from the broken woods and metal.

"Mister," she called out in strained whisper.

"Get him out," Those feeble hands tried to grab on her little brother's clothes even though it kept slipping out of her fingers, "and kill me. Before those white face come and get me." Her voice started to gain strength as she asked for her end.

"No, come on. We can get you both out." Jackal swallowed the uneasy familiarity.

"They are very close. Kill me before I end up like my family." She faltered and squeezed every bit of her remaining vigor to shift forward.

"I, I can't." Jackal wanted to shout for the others but the girl was right. He could hear footsteps that weren't of his allies.

"Please, there isn't much ti-" A loud bang of sniper rifle interrupted her sentence. She never got to talk anymore because the bullet struck into her forehead, which also grazed Jackal's cheek as well. Everything after this became a blur to Jackal but he could smell the saltiness of his own sweat and a young boy's tear when he sprinted out of the scene. The image of an older sibling's death overlapped with his own and he remembered nothing of the mission until he came back to the base. The cloud rumbled to warn a heavy rain in the evening but the only thing he cared about was to get the boy to somewhere safe and dry.

* * *

 

The winter chill seeps into his skalp in a form of jabbing droplets from the grey sky. Every bit of his body and nerves are numbing from the freezing cold but Ryad rather die of hypothermia than the ruthless violence from his daily life. He has been serving in the force for thirty years and it has been a wild and unexpected journey that his younger self wouldn't have imagined. One can assume that someone like Ryad is still in the army to find the murderer of his brother, that his motivation is driven by sheer vengeance of his stolen childhood. It may be hard to believe that Ryad is losing the purpose of his life. One could ask him 'what have you been doing your entire life?' and Ryad hates the fact that he can't give an immediate answer to the condescending question. Depression soaks through his aching muscles from chronic insomnia and sense of defeat puts out the flame of the determination that kept his heart ablaze. He shudders in his wet shirt but there is something that keeps him standing in the downpour. The white noise of rain carries a familiar voice and a figure that resembles of his old hero. Ryad gazes into the spectre of his dead brother and listens intently, hoping that he would tell him to give up and join him. Forget about the hatred and exhaustion and walk over to the place where he can rest in peace.

The bloodstain on his brother's shirt is the only sign that helps Ryad to register this whole situation as a hallucination. A mere imagination of his exaggerated horror and sorrow of the gore from Faisal's dead body. Despite this knowledge, he can't stop himself from being drawn closer to the sweet invitation of joining his family in after life. He can just do it now with the pistol in his hand. One pull from the trigger. To escape the self-pity and endless blame that he put on himself.

"Amour!" Someone calls him from afar. Ryad snaps out of his trance at the sight of a figure running towards him with an umbrella.

"Are you mad? You will catch cold in this weather." As the shorter man pulls Ryad's arm towards the base, the ghost of Faisal fades away in the rain, waving him a goodbye.

"Not today?" Ryad whispers and waves back at the figure who shakes its head at him. A tear strolls down from his icy face and he never knew that crying could feel so warm, especially with his new love guiding him back to the purpose of his life.

"I am sorry, Gus. Let's get back."


	3. Thatcher's curtain call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from my sad fic idea where some of the operators might give up their will to live when they are fatally wounded.  
> Thatcher might give up, thinking he is finally free from constantly putting himself in wars and battles.

The gun shots. Booms of explosions. Screams and blood-gurgles of his comrades. These are the composition of music for an old soldier. He heard them plenty, dreamt of them every fortnight and play the part of his own orchestra throughout his life. He has been in this game ever since eighteen and planned on staying till his eventual retirement, so bullets through his stomach feels somehow much unexpected to him. _Can’t be lying down_ , he thinks. _I need to jump up and hold my gun_. Does he really have to? A question blocks his thought. _What are you going to do after you survive this? Go on and continue to fight till your body is mangled to beyond? Till your soul crosses the river of the eternally-damned?_

“Fuck,” Mike swears in strained voice to numb himself away from pain and internal conflict. He can use the coms device but the voice from his conscience keeps on nagging. _Save yourself, sure. What about those youngsters who will throw their body for your sake then, hm? It’s time to go, old timer._

“Thatcher!” Mute shouts his code name, louder than his usual self. _Look, the young idiot is coming to drag you back into safety. To patch you up and get ready for another battle, another day._ He doesn’t understand why but Mike lays low and stays silent without responding to his comrade.

“Maybe you are right, but that is not what I signed up for.” He growls to himself and tries to move his arm which is already weak and heavy from the loss of blood. _Hey, why do you even try?_

“Because I am a soldier.” He chuckles at the insanity of having a conversation with his delusion. _I am not a delusion. I am just here to tell you that you have nothing to look forward to._

“Stop.” The truth sends shiver down to his spine. _No one will be there after the military life, not out in the real world._

“Piss off.” Mike can barely hear his own voice, realising that he is lying in a pool of his own life essence. _Let it pour. Let it go, old man. You can be free now, away from your own conviction. Your incapability of forming anything important out of your comfort zone._

“Have I done my job?” He asks. _Yes, you have done enough. Those young ones will carry your legacy. Those miserable thirty or so years did something. You are nothing but a past._

“Yeah. I guess it’s time.” Mike agrees and relaxes his body. Nothing seems to matter now. He can see the bullets hitting the metal frames, creating sparks from the friction. Beautiful fireworks. The last grand view before his curtain calls.  _You can rest now, champ._


	4. Chimera's end (Montagne/Thatcher)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "concept: your otp, but one is infected, and they fucking kill the other brutally :3ccc"  
> a cruel idea given by a discord friend,  
> http://aricyanide.tumblr.com  
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/ari_cyanide  
> ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT - THIS FIC IS RELATED TO THE OPERATION CHIMERA SO PLEASE WATCH OUT IF YOU WANT TO WAIT TILL IT ACTUALLY COMES OUT

When a comrade goes missing in action for a week, the old Thatcher is usually the first one to advise his team to stop the search. This time is clearly different, considering the operator that had gone missing is another veteran who has a similar length of military experience as him. Montange hadn’t been Ash’s first choice to be in the Operation Chimera, but Six recommended that his large shield can be proven useful when fending off the crowd of infected victims. Thatcher understood the logic behind the sudden deployment but that didn’t mean he was pleased with it. The French smiled before waving a goodbye and even blew a cheeky kiss before boarding on the helicopter. Thatcher flipped him a finger, hid his anxiety and carried a portable radio to hear every details of the operation from then on.

When he had heard that Montange ‘disappeared’ while blocking the alley way against the swarms of the mutated, Thatcher was quick to act. One could have said that he was abusing his status and authority as a prominent figure of the SAS, but that really showed his desperation to arrive at New Mexico. He volunteered to be on the searching team to at least find the famed ‘Le Roc,’ and while Ash firmly disagreed with the idea, Tachanka allowed his fellow elder to search for the relic.

Today is the third day of search. Thatcher dares to travel down the supposed alley that Montagne was last seen. He doesn’t have to walk far to notice an abnormality within few meters away.

"Mik- I- f-fuck."  A heap of messy black chunk calls out a familiar name. Thatcher refuses to believe the large abomination is someone that he knows so well. The tethered navy uniform and the hunk of metal shield glued to its limb CANNOT be the only man he has given his heart to.

"This is a restricted area, sir. Move yourself away immediately."  The monster seems to be comprehensive of a human language so far. Thatcher attempts to reason with it and treat it like a civilian. It HAS to be a civilian that Montagne helped before he went missing. He assumes that Montange may have lended his armour and shield to protect them. _That fool has always been so hell-bent on saving the innocent._

"Am-ou- it- me." It limps closer, struggling to hold its arms down that has been shaking violently. Thatcher ignores what it says and raises his shotgun.

"Do not step in any closer. Ignorance of the warning shall be regarded as a threat." He hears nothing from the abomination. Thatcher is shaking the doubt away and grits his teeth to hold down the confusion disguised in apathy.

"Si-l vou-plait." The voice is clearer this time. There is no mistake in that painfully obvious accent, the unique characteristic of his lover that he absolutely cherished. The realisation dawns upon Thatcher but he doesn’t collapse in despair. Judging by how Montange is still talking to him, there may be some slim chance of rescue. If only he could capture his comrade alive without squashed to death. There is a voice in his head, nagging him to listen to his common sense but he pushes it away with a false sense of rationalisation.

"I-I-I- mis-sed." Gilles' distorted and gravelly voice shakes as if he is weeping. Every moment of this is painful to watch. As Gilles inches closer to him, Thatcher clutches on his shotgun with crushing grip to calm himself down.

"Listen here, you pathetic sod. Let’s walk back to the base and patch you right up. You may become a lab rat but that’s what you get for being reckless all the time." Thatcher rummages through his pouch and drops few shells on the floor, a rookie mistake that he hadn't done in a while. The clinks on the ground distracts him away from Gilles lunging at Thatcher which he almost yelps out in surprise. The others mustn’t see Montange in such state or else they may slaughter a man who can still be salvaged.

"Yo-u c-an-‘t be her-e." Gilles growls.

"Ha-ve you g-one s-s-en-ile?" That damned joke. This is Montagne, alright. Only they would banter about their age.

"Don’t be a lazy-French bastard. We can still do this." Mike replies and looks up at Gilles through the blurry tears.

“T-t-tt-oo l-ate,” Gilles taps on his inhuman body and whispers "yo-u need t-o kill me."

"Don’t say that." Mike shudders in dismay.

"KiLL." The same command is almost a roar, a sure sign of Gilles succumbing to the infection.

"No." Mike denies to shoot those brown eyes that still shines the warmth that he once knew.

"KILL." Gilles pounces his new set of lethal fists down, crushing Thatcher's thigh. The excruciating agony of broken bones is sure to trigger the survival instinct in any living being and Thatcher is no exception. Thanks to his years of military service, he is quick to retaliate by slugging couple of shots on Gilles' chests. The fragments of hardened flesh scatter on his gas mask and he watches Gilles falter.

"Soldiers don’t give up, Toure. Fight it off and come." His hands are steady while reloading fresh shells.

"KILL." Gilles wails in pain and leaps toward Thatcher, ready to pounce again.

"NO!" He plants another shot on Gilles, this time on the shoulder. His heart falters when black fluid spurt out beneath the mutated skin.

"MUST." His pleads are hard to bear. Gilles slams into Mike's ankle, forcing the Brit to blast a third shot.

"You sadistic cunt." It's definitely intentional that Gilles is rendering Mike to be immobile, enforcing the situation to be a death match between the two.

"One." Gilles pushes his stony face on the barrel, allowing Mike to observe closer this time. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Gilles resembles closer to one of those who have fallen. Those brown corneas have changed their colours within five minutes in their encounter. No one knows if they can hold a conversation before they return to the base.

"Fuckwit." Mike realises the time has come. His whole face is clouded in humid steam of saliva and sweat but everything else feels cold as he understands the inevitable end.

"Kill?" He asks, fully ready for the brutal mercy.

"Kill." The other replies. With a loud bang, Mike's vision is blocked by splatters of dark mess and he collapses on the floor, out of shock and pain, in and out. 


	5. A Comfortable Bicker (Dokkaebi/Vigil)

Dokkaebi is fed up with leaves and branches hitting her here and there, but she can't push them away while her hands are occupied. Holding onto Vigil's right leg and arm while lodging his body on her shoulder isn't the hardest job out there, heck, this was the basic training that she went through during her first year in the army. What annoys her though, is that Vigil somehow thought it would be the best idea to hike early in the morning and sprain his ankle while lecturing her about the proper way to do anything  _as usual._

"오빠, 살 좀 빼지?  
(Oppa, why don't you lose some weight?)" Dokkaebi huffs and collects her breathe as she continues to walk down the bumpy slope.

"업어 달라한적 없다.   
(Didn't ask to be carried.)" Vigil replies, glad that Dokkaebi can't see his strained face, flushed in red out of embarrassment.

"아, 또 쓸데없는 고집 부린다. 덧나면 어쩔려고?  
(You are being stubborn again. What if it gets worse?)" She pinches on his thigh and smirks when he flinches. Vigil only gapes his mouth to say something but decides to save his rebuttal.

"나니깐 들어주지, 다른 얘들 같으면 이렇게 소중하게 다뤄주진 않을걸?  
(You know I would be the only one carrying you like this. If it was anybody else, do you think they would treat you this precious?)" She expects him to 'correct' her arrogant attitude, so she begins to worry a bit when he says nothing for a while.

"오빠?  
(Oppa?)" Just as Dokkaebi readies herself to lower his body, Vigil taps on her shoulder and shakes his head.

"응, 고맙다고.   
(Yeah, I've said 'thanks.')" That is rare. Dokkaebi is pleasantly surprised that Vigil has said something of a gentle nature since he usually scoffs off at anything she says. When she stops to check his face, she is delighted to see a deeper shade of red.

"존나 귀엽네.  
(Shit, you are cute.)" Her whisper isn't intended to be heard but Vigil, the man of virtue somehow picks up on the cuss.

"욕하지 좀 마라.  
(Can you not swear.)" Vigil attempts to sound dignified, which isn't really working when he is being carried like a sandbag.

"세상에, 꼰대가 좋아질 줄이야.  
(My god, I never thought I would fall for an old fart.)" She mutters again, louder this time to shut him up with her brash manner yet again. She has been expressing her interest in this manner for a while and it seems to work exceptionally well with someone introverted such as this idiot on her shoulder.


	6. Well, you tried. (Valkyrie/Ela)

"Hun, I think this is too much." Meghan sighs as she cringes at the pool of dark extract in a bowl. The gloves that she is wearing may protect her hand from looking like a coal miner but the smell. Oh, the pungent fume shall linger with her for days.

"There are prices to be paid for the aethestics. I am pretty sure you would understand, especially with those wonderful tats." Ela wriggles in the black cape and reaches out to stroke her girlfriend's arm. Her finger pokes on the red patches on the tattoo and smiles in fond pride of the love they shared last night.

"Yes, but this looks so black for something that is supposed to be green and blue together." Meghan hesitates to pick up the brush and regrets to be in part of this colourful mayhem.

"Come on, Meg. You are the only one who I can trust with this kind of stuff. I mean, I could ask Timur but it means a lot to me that *you* are helping out." Ela turns around and pouts her lips, blinks her eyes in plead which always work when convincing her doting partner.

"Okay, fine. Don't blame me later." Here it goes. Meghan is still worried that she may ruin everything. She has followed Ela's instruction on where to brush and which layer to watch out for. After waiting for the dye to settle in, Meghan volunteers to wash the hair to check on the possible disaster yet to come. Her hands shake as she runs through the fine hair that resembles more of a seaweed in whirlpools of shampoo froth. When she rinses out the hair, she sees murky black. Thinking the dye needs to be rinsed out more, she tries again and again, and begins to fear as the colour remains the same with only bit of green on the tinge. Drying the moisture doesn't help either. A white towel turns teal within few minutes, indicating that they have used the right colour, except it may have been too concentrated.

"Oh shit." Meghan frowns in panic.

"What? What is it?" Ela picks up on the uncertainty and perks up to find the closest mirror. Meghan can see the moment of realisation strikes hard on her lover who freezes immediately.

"Gówno," Ela whispers and slowly turns around to give Meghan the most awkward smile, "this is great!" No, it isn't.

"Yeah?" Meghan replies and pinches herself on the stomach.

"Splendid. Thank you SO much." They share a hug and Meghan endures the wet rub on her shoulder.

"Do you want me to call Timur?" Meghan asks as she whips out her cell.

"Yes please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gówno means 'shit' in Polish.
> 
> This also includes my hc where Glaz may help out some people with their hair dyes :)


	7. Took a jab at writing in Korean (Vigil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my headcannon of how Vigil would have felt about his past. I wanted to write in Korean and see how it sounds in English as well. It was worth a try.

그 누가 언제부터 백두산의 정기가 이 땅을 수호하리라고 믿었는지는 모른다. 그저 한낱 나무로 뒤덮힌 돌덩이일뿐인데. 미신은 약한 마음에 깃드는 것이요, 가난한 서민들이 얇은 손가락으로 쥐어잡는 마지막 지푸라기여라. 어린 소년의 눈엔 아비의 휘어진 등이 홀로 꼿꼿이 서있는 소나무였고 거기에 한 없이 기댈수 있으리라 믿었다.

아버지가 말씀하시기를, 조금만 고생하면 자유가 있다고. 형이 물에 휩쓸려 죽고 어미가 밀림에 버려졌을때야 이 모든 것이 얼마나 무모한 도전이었는지. 아비마저 그의 목숨을 스스로 끊어버렸으니, 이 얼마나 잔인하고 무책임한 행동이랴. 이름을 잊어버린 소년은 화철경이란 이름으로 살아 이젠 어른이 되었지만, 가족의 피를 묻히고 부지한 이 생명에 회의를 느꼈다.

낮선 사람이 조금이라도 관심을 가지면 심장이 먿는, 그런 쓸쓸한 인간이 되어버린 그가 행복을 찾을수 있는지. 그런 의미에서 군인의 삶은 철경에게 안식처로 다가왔다. 명령, 복종, 반복되는 일상이 마냥 편안하진 않았지만 그래도 혼자가 아닌게 어디랴. 군에서 지나친 감정은 필요치 않았다. 친밀하지도 불편하지도 않은 이곳에서 차곡차곡 쌓아온 그 만의 성이 한 사람 때문에 금이갔을때 얼마나 당혹스럽던지.

"형, 또 혼자서 궁상떨어?"

뻔뻔하고 요물같은 후배, 남은혜. 철없고 영악한 깡패같은 그녀가 그에게 어떤 영향을 줄거라곤 상상도 못했다.

* * *

 

Translation:

 

No one knows who started to believe that the essence of Baekdu mountain would protect this land. Frankly put, it is just a hunk of rock covered in trees. Such myths lived among those of weak mind. It has been the last straw of hope that poor peasants grasped with their thinning fingers. To a young boy, his father's crooked back looked like a lone pine tree that he believed he could lean on forever.

His father said that there would be a freedom for all after bit of hardships. The boy realised that such challenge was reckless after his brother was swept away in the water and mother was left to die in the forest. How irresponsible and cruel his father was, committing a suicide and leaving his child behind. The boy who has lost his name has lived and grown up as an adult called Chul Kyung Hwa, but at times he doubted this life that was saved by his family's blood.

His heart constantly to froze whenever a stranger showed him some attention, and this made him wonder if a lonesome guy like him could ever find happiness. In that sense, the choice of being in the military came to him as a sanctuary. Order, obedience and repetitive life weren't the most comfortable lifestyle out there, but at least he wasn't alone. Showing excessive amount of emotion wasn't needed in the army. He had built his own wall by being not too friendly but not too hostile in his daily life, so he was utterly shocked when it began to crack because of one person.

"형, 또 혼자서 궁상떨어?  
(Hyung, are you being a lonely loser again?)"

That is his brazen and imp-like junior, Grace Nam. He had never imagined someone immature and cunning hoodlum like her could affect him in any way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left the ending to be kinda open so it can imply that him and Dokkaebi are together or she has became a wing man to him and helped him to date someone.
> 
> Baekdu mountain is one of those revered mountain that is located in north korea - for the reference


	8. Bitter Differences (Mira/Ash)

"Liza." A soft whisper is very audible within the two women who are sharing a coffee in a dainty cafè. One may not recognise the name immediately, but if you have hung around Eliza, it is easy to deduce that's the only endearment that she allows people to call her.

"See, we can drop by the club here and still make it to the appointment tomorrow." Eliza is quite the contrary to her older partner.  Her hands are busily tapping on the phone to clear out the tasks and schedules, as well as making new ones.

"You didn't tell me about-" Elena sighs in tiredness which soon changes into an annoyance.

"Do you know what we are doing tomorrow? What _I_ am doing tomorrow?" Elena tones her anger down in attempt to have a civil conversation with her so-called lover.

"Is it," Eliza looks up to the Spaniard with rather sheepish gaze, "hospital-related?"

"It's about my ankle." With slowly rising temper, Elena grips on a tablespoon, fist slightly shaking.

"It looks fine?" Eliza blurts out and soon regrets her comment when she remembers oh, it's not fine.

"That's it. I am going." What is the use of sparing a tablespoon from its bent fate if Elena doesn't control the way she leaps out from the table and knocks everything off within her range? Eliza is starting to realise that this is not a sudden eruption of turmoil, but something of a bottled-up frustration.

"Whoa, whoa. Sorry that i forgot about your acute sprain. Me and my haywire brain-"

"You always say that. Acting like you are young and free, always after what you want, forgetting things that I tell you." Elena cuts into the hasty apology and storms out of the cafè. Eliza cleans up the mess in lightening speed and runs after her.

"Hon, I'm sorry!" She reaches out to give Elena a support, but got shoved off.

"Are we not serious? Am I not embedded in your brain yet? Fuck you, niña. You are still a damn child." Elena shakily shouts while swallowing the tears down. Her pride would never allow any bystanders to witness her weakness and it seems like she is trying so hard to shut her girlfriend out as well.

"Don't call me until you know why I am so sick of you right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A take on angst between Ash and Mira.


	9. I don't get it (Sledge/Smoke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smoke the weird bastard.

Friday night is the typical rowdy get-together for the operators of Rainbow. Here’s Seamus, the nominee of 'the responsible adult of the year' but such reputation has forced him to be sitting amongst the busy folks, sacrificing his evening to be the watchful and yet distracted. Whenever someone cracks some corny joke, the corner of his lips curl into an attentive grin but the eyes remain dull with full of exhaustion. Anyone can easily notice his pensive attitude if they aren’t about to vomit out every bit of alcohol, but alas, someone has been attentive of their residential gentle giant. James pushes through Mike and Mark, and stares down at Seamus who still hasn’t noticed the man in front of him. At first, the two drunken Brits complained about James’ rude behaviour until the cheeky man snatches a pint of Guinness off of Seamus. Only then the Scot snaps out of his trance, furrows his brows and shakes his head in disapproval.  
  
“Fine beer. Foolish to let it become stale.” Without giving Seamus any moment of object, James tips the glass and drains the stout into his throat, and this has caused uproar of excited cheers from the crowd. Jordan immediately begins to tease Seamus for being a slowpoke and Mark is holding his laughter down.   
  
“Come on, biggie. I shall buy you the same thing, but fresher.” James promptly pulls Seamus out of his seat with a laboured heave. Ignoring the rest of SAS and FBI members' loud plea for more rounds of beer, James drags Seamus through the crowd to let themselves outside of the pub.   
  
“This isn’t where we pay to get jugs of piss.” The slight chill air of the Hereford tickles his dome but Seamus holds down the shiver by defiantly crossing his arms.   
  
“It's free here.” James shifts his gaze at the questionable stains on the brick walls.   
  
“Right.” Seamus’ nose crinkles. He is thankful of the cold weather that lessens the stench but he'd rather be back in the booth and booze. Without saying a word, he turns away and holds on the brass doorknob that leads to the warmth. He would have swung the door open if James hadn't held it shut by leaning against it.   
  
“What are you doing?” James steals the words right off of Seamus. Is this some sort of a joke? Seamus should be the one asking the question and try to understand why they are wasting their time in some shady alley that reeks of unwashed restroom.   
  
“What am _I_ doing?” Seamus reiterates and wonders if this could be one of those dry and pompous Londoner humour.   
  
“Why are you holding my hand?” James interrogates but contradicts himself by reaching out to clasp on the hands that are wider and colder.   
  
“ _What?_ ” Now this definitely feels like a silly game. Seamus is confident that James must be drunk off of his arse, and mayhaps that's why he is acting so abruptly without a context.   
  
“Don't you get closer now,” and yet he steps forward without stumbling, “and touch me so suggestively.” It's not Seamus who is doing this. James is the one who are pulling them closer, guiding their fingers to be intertwined  while their palms are dangerously close to the shorter man’s buttocks.   
  
“Are you out of your knob?” Seamus asks while adjusting his posture. It's clear that the man is very sober, fully knows what he is doing and Seamus is perplexed on so many levels.   
  
“No, but I am certainly more awake than you are.” A sly grin spreads as James leans closer. Seamus’ earlobe is turning red due to the heat from shaky breath of the other man.   
  
“I hope this has helped to liven up your tedious evening. Opened your eyes, per say.” James softly huffs, steps back and unfold their hands. Seamus assumes that he must appear pretty dumbstruck now because James is smirking ear to ear.   
  
“See you inside.” James whispers again but it sounds a little further this time. Seamus is left alone, utterly puzzled at his colleague’s behaviour and his own reaction towards it. It is entirely up to him to either return or leave, but both of the choices won't let him sleep until he discovers what will be the outcome. It shall be a restless night. 


	10. On a whim (Valkyrie/Ela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift to silky133

The spark. Sensation of electricity suspended within the space between their faces while they stand close, as if one slight movement will spur into a rapid collision of two bodies mingling and intertwining into explosion of pure pleasure. Meghan couldn’t have predicted that the appetite for her lover would be so strong in midst of their obstacle training. The evening breeze seems to aerate the sweat into an unique and yet luscious scent that Meghan can’t simply resist but to get closer. Ela doesn’t shy away nor step back; she leans in, hovers her mouth right above the broader shoulder and gently breathes in their combined body odour that has been accumulating for some time now.

“Księżniczko.” Ela’s whisper causes a mild jolt and it’s becoming all too unbearable. Meghan wonders if the lack of sound is sharpening every bit of nerves within her, emphasising the little naughty teases from Ela . The light pressure of fingertips sweeping from Meghan’s ribs to hips and how their chests rubbing against each other while their nipples are pushed tight and packed, oh it certainly stirs the primal desire within Meghan.

“Babe, let’s get back before-” Meghan’s attempt to be civil is futile against the pair of lips. Such delicious delicacy that she never become tired of tasting. In fact, the supple and moist flesh brings immense warmth to Meghan, the texture of irresistible addiction. Ela massages their lips together, encourages them to slide and occasionally nibbles to bring out a surprised gasp from Meghan.

"Are we serious? Really doing this here?" That's the final questions that Meghan can muster while suppressing the urge to leap into an action.

“What are we, a couple of pussies?” Ignoring the shameful pun and the delightful giggles from Ela, Meghan stops holding herself back and immediately delves into the sleek neck hidden under the turquoise curtain of a hair. Meghan wraps her arms around her lover and licks the sensitive spots that she knows of so well. Unrestrained moans from Ela guides Meghan to focus on certain places and those are the spots to leave the most vivid hickey for their entertainment later.

“Meghan.” Ela doesn’t need to explain what she wants. She shows by swiftly taking her shirt and bra off, and pulls the platinum blonde into her chest. Obeying the wanting hands, Meghan plants a few pecks on the collarbone and engulfs the entire tip of her lover’s tender breast, pinching the perky nipple between her tongue and hard palate. Noticing the gasps and hair gripping as a positive sign, Meghan moves onto the other nipple and give it the rightfully deserved attention. She hasn’t forgotten about the most important part of their body – if she did, her hand wouldn’t be snaking around Ela’s toned stomach, trying to lift up the skintight pants and touch the area that’s drenched already.

“We should’ve brought our _toolbox._ ” Meghan smirks as she kneels down to show more affection.

“Not my fault that you’ve turned me on.” Ela bites her lips in anticipation and gazes down at the woman who is unrolling her pants down. Yes, unrolling because the damned latex can’t be swept down when it gets so sticky after being in contact with bodily fluids.

“I think that goes both ways.” that’s true because the treasure that holds beneath the fair face will grant Meghan a reaction that she absolutely adores to witness. Starting with caressing the little stub with a tongue, Meghan slowly moved down to the main entrance which causes Ela to writhe in ticklish sensation - her laboured huffs swing high and low, an obvious indication of orgasm pulsating as Meghan moves her mouth around ever so skillfully. However, it is quite difficult to pleasure a lady while she is standing up against a brick wall, even more so when she retracts her bottom out of reflex. Ela tries to keep her pelvis still but somehow knocks her girlfriend rather too hard due to her jerky movement.

“Oh, oh my gosh,” Ela stops and checks up on her pleasurer, “hon, I am so sorry!”

“It’s okay. I just know what to do.” Meghan is far from feeling offended. With a devilish grin, she crouches down, hooks Ela’s legs on her shoulder and allows herself to face the alternative pair of lips that she has been kissing. This might risk her head being crushed, but what the hell. Love is blind and lust renders you senseless.

“Hold onto a wall.” Meghan warns and Ela complies. Judging by the fact that women’s centre of mass is on their bottom half, Ela doubted that Meghan could stand in full length. She nearly yelped in an unexpected joy when Meghan lifts Ela up, allowing her hands to cling on the ledge above her. Ela would have complimented the extraordinary muscle power, she is interrupted from making a complete sentence as soon as the smooth and yet firm piece of flesh enters her delicate area.

“Meg- oh fuck, Meghan- I, oh-” Groans and whimpers are let loose, progressively becoming louder and incoherent. Her hips begins to move and while Ela is aware that this may throw Meghan off balance, but all the logic and reasoning skills are thrown out of the window at this moment. This is an all-in-one package for her. The prodding tongue, gums and teeth dangerously close to her clitoris to give it the stimulating rub and those mesmerisingly beautiful blue eyes sparkling below her.  

“Meg, gówno, you need to- just let me down for a bit.” The climax is so near but when it happens, it will be a disaster.

“I will never let you down, I promise.” Meghan winks at Ela and continues to chase after the wave of frenzy. She uses every bit of her to give Ela the final push. Excessive slurps from pushing the clitoris as well as lubed finger or two to replace the tongue that’s busy now. Experiencing sudden spasm of nerve zips from bottom to top, a high-pitched yelp seeps through Ela’s gritting teeth. She clamps her thighs shut when the spot hits her deep and throbbing, and this almost suffocates Meghan. The comedy in this naughty episode is that Meghan actually sways and falters back. She would have fallen on her back if Ela wasn’t quick on her feet to catch her exhausted partner.

“We are definitely not doing this again outside,” Meghan slurs her words, with an understandably tired mouth, “but I won’t be able to say no if you look so damn stunning, gorgeous, pretty, hot, sexy-” we can probably guess where her trail of thought is going and how Ela is shameless flattered but equally worried. That’s the story folks. Lovers can be such fools, endlessly endearing to one another. Just remember, never underestimate the quadriceps of a runner who can run faster than you.   



	11. Drabble (Frost)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from a terrorist's pov

There are only a few who is favoured by the darkness. We are not talking about the moral compass or its figurative mysteriousness. No, it's an aspect of the dark itself and what it does to the environment. Slight dim brings a sense of peace, almost a curtain call to indicate the ending of dailylight activities. Dark and moolit skies is still enoyable. Some may boast that they are attuned to the element of shadow after being on a few trips of night fishing or hunting. Sure, it is an admirable feat, something to be proud of when they have succeeded. However, it would be advisable for them to be more modest if they haven't experienced the true darkness. As a terrorist, you are assigned to raid the yacht. The intel didn't mention anything about the ship to be completely dark, but that is the woe of being in a hefty organisation that wants to be on the 'dark side.' Stepping down almost give you an experience of descending into a sea level where no sunshine can reach. This is the moment when nothing seems to exist when it clearly should. Lack of light blinds your eyes and confuses your other senses. You hear droplets but in which direction? There is nothing that you can detect to give you a referece of direction. Nothingness must smell like something, but it must be annoying to feel like a person who has just recovered from a horrible congestion. We all know that sensation too well - the fresh scent of an air leaves no mark and yet your brain forces you to think it should smell of something. Walk forward. Let your feet be your walking stick in this lair of an abyss. You can hope to trigger at least one or two of those electronic traps. Maybe that can force the operators to shoot at your direction and give out their position from the gun flash. Perhaps you can make the hostage cry in fear when the other white masks trigger something that will make a loud noise. Yes, something along the sound of-

_**CRACK**_  

"FUCK!" You fall down with immense pain on your ankle. There's- there's something chomping on your leg and it hurts like a bitch. You don't even know what to grab and try to spread it open, an can't even see if it's flat or jaggered. You can hear a few of the others starting to move, judging by the sharp rustles of nylon fabric around you. Someone slumps next to you and you can only assume that they are taking a position of defence. There are more of the others joining your side, all dropping down with a heavy thud. When you hear a familiar and bone chilling crack from the other farside of left or right, you nudge on one of your team to start a conversation.

"Did you hear that? Must be one of us who triggered this damned, annoying-"

"Trap?" Someone else finishes your sentence. It's a voice that you don't recognise amongst you, because you are damn so fucking sure that there isn't female white mask assigned to this particular mission. A figure approaches you, something in form of grey or white. You could have shit your pants and claimed to witness a ghost, but all is too late. The shimmery figure of white vanishes out of nowhere and with a sharp pain on your neck, blood pours out of your throat, interrupting any muffled scream of horror as you wait for your inevitable death. How can this be? All ten of them heard nothing or caught even a speck of white fabric, the most uncanny colour to wear for a night time and indoor ambush. This is all 'shoulda-woulda-coulda,' but the result is clear. Perhaps the darkness doesn't favour anyone. Only a few can tame it to their own advantage and you happen to be their prey.


	12. Drabble (Doc)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kateb and blood.

Red. There is nothing foreign about it in his hand. There are plethora of objects that bears the very pigment of burgundy, crimson, ruby, scarlet... Of course, there is one shade of red that anybody may have seen in their lifetime. It's natural, eventual and inevitable. Even a child would have seen one when they trip over and cry about it. The essence of any living being has as long as they are an animal of a sort. The colour of revolution, warmth, passion and human nature. Blood. Haemoglobin being circulated through arteries and veins, but what is the use of having functional heart when there are several holes in his body? There is nothing that a barrel can do when it's leaking, especially when the pump is constantly pushing its liquid out. 

"Doc, am I?" A recruit shakily whispers to Gustave, who has been holding the wound down for some hour or so to stop the further blood loss.

"You are going to make it. I am here." Being a field medic either forces a man to be an exceptional liar or the victim of self-induced false hope. Gustave always thought that he is good at deceiving but there is a limit in his bravado.

"I am," something catches his eyes. A scene that played out countless times as a doctor, but he has no idea why it all feels too unfamiliar to see his hands soaked in dark shade of brown and red - resembling patches of wine stain. Amazed at himself to be caught off-guard, Gustave loses a few second of his general awareness of the situation around him. He then realises that the recruit isn't breathing at all. His mind whirls in motion as the truth dawns on him, so he reaches out for the defibrillator in his inventory. All of the procedure is performed with practised precision but his heart is racing, pumping chemical of adrenaline. He knows. It's his profession to diagnose which victim can be saved and which are too late, and yet here he is, sending electricity to a dead man's body. Every action is driven by his conviction and at times it has performed miracles. That isn't the case for this one, though. The recruit should have been announced dead exactly two minutes and thirty-five seconds ago, laying cold in Gustave's arms, brushing against his gloves and cleaning it back to its former purity of white.


	13. bandit taking a dare with smoke on who can trip the most children in ikea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much summed up in the title, except the challenge was to write it out no more than 500 words.  
> Thanks to [Mi723](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mi723/profile) for the prompt (which is the title of this ficlet) and the challenge :D

No maze is busier than IKEA. Here are two men somehow finding the motivation to sit around and watch over civilians as if they don’t have an entire world to save. No, they have something much grand and important to do in an inlet that reeks of dust and savoury meatballs.

“Mate,” Smoke opens his dry mouth, lips parched without half-finished beer bottle that has been snatched away by an employee in the shop, “we should’ve gone to the kindergarten like you  said.”

“I’ve only said ‘kinder.’ Shut your mouth and watch.” Bandit passes a hidden flask in his jacket to Smoke. Although he would prefer to have his competitor more sober, sharing a cheap bourbon seems like a better choice than listening to a whiny Brit.

“You are mental.” Smoke cracks a cackle and gladly takes a sip. His mind slips back to the incident that happened half an hour ago, where Blitz wanted to assure that Bandit is the biggest softie of all the Germans in the base. Smoke hopped on the claim and threw some jokes along the lines of how Bandit wouldn’t hurt a fly, and conversation  _ somehow  _ developed into a philosophical debate on the correlation between the innocence of a human and not wanting to hurt some small insect. Some argued that flies are  _ things _ that can be killed without the need to feel guilty and others didn’t disagree. Then someone decided to proclaim that any of the operators must feel guilty in hurting a tiny, annoying and noisy creature. Bandit whispered a word in German and Smoke dashed into the garage with him. Only a few understood what Bandit had said, but it was too late to stop the car that raced into the parking lot of the infamous shopping mall. Smoke has stopped reminiscing on the horrified look on Jager and Blitz’s face before they zoomed out of the barrack.

“Fucking try to beat my score.” Nine. This nasty piece of a dick has managed to trip nine poor children by shoving a few sticks of bamboo under the crates that holds one of those inflatable chicken dolls.

“I have been doing that already.” Bandit points at the furthest aisle from where they are sitting and they witness a six year old slipping on his back without any visible course. A different child walks by, falls and slips a bit as she lands on her hands. Any children who ran down on that particular aisle kept losing balance and trip; some even grabs onto their parents and they fall altogether.

“Let me guess. Engine oil?”

“I wouldn’t waste it for this occasion. Just canola from the kitchen.” Bandit snatches the flask back and smirks at the sight of adults falling on top of each other.

“Thought we are only after the children.” Smoke reaches out to greedily steal some more of Bandit’s liquour but clicks his tongue when he is shoved away.

“Who says that we are all grown-up?”

 


	14. Dokkaebi's background headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a drabble/draft. Got caught up in reading the Korean operators’ canon background and created headcannons for Dokkaebi's past. I may have put in a lot of my personal experiences and opinions, and what I have perceived from my family, Korean media etc. It has some element of unfair sexism in Korean society.

I imagine to start the fic in a scene where Dokkaebi, Vigil, Hibana and Echo have some drinking night. Hibana asks how Vigil and Dokkaebi aebi are chummy nowadays because he remembers the Koreans used to be quite cold with each other. Dokkaebi replies and she is the type who tells everybody her life story when drunk.

She recounts her preschool days, when she hung out with these boys. The boys were talking about robot cartoons and she joined in because she also watched those, but boys were like "girls shouldn't watch that kind of stuff." Dokkaebi argued that she can because it's fun. The boys kept saying she is weird and how she should just stick with Sailor Moon and Cardcaptor Sakura.

Fast forward to her high school days, Dokkaebi was a short haired girl who refused to fit in the conventional look of a high school girl. She used to get told off by the teachers because she was kind of a student who was sassy. The teachers were like "you shouldn't be so stubborn. That's not what girls do," or "wow, Eun Hye. You are going to tire out your future husband." The final blow was when she saw a male student saying the same thing that she had said, but he was praised as an ‘outspoken young blood with strong leadership.' 

This really made her think that the Korean society is bloody rotten. She knew she's smart and capable than any other boys here, but her voice wasn't simply heard. Therefore she observed the traits of these 'well-loved female students.' Nice, calm and soft spoken. She demanded her parents that she wanted to transfer into a different school and started a new image there. She would have all of the nice girl traits with a tidy hair and glasses, but she still kept her sassy attitude. The teachers at this new school couldn't say anything bad about her because she toned down on her aggressive attitude. She only fought arguments that she would surely win, and if not, she was quick to apologise to diffuse the tension. Everything she has said was right and logical, plus if you get all A in your tests, no one could touch you in Korean high school.

She graduated from this famous science college called the KAIST (Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology) and joined the army. Just like any recruit, she obeyed and followed but wasn't afraid to show her ability. This allowed her to join ROK Army Special Forces and when she started to get confident, this caused some strain between her and the superiors. Despite this, she was recommended to join the white tiger (SMB) by the American instructors. She was thrilled until this prick called General Kuh got in the way. I imagine General Kuh to be one of those geezers who carries a slab of iron rules. Strict and unforgiving, which is totally opposite of Dokkaebi’s true nature. So Dokkaebi thrived and found herself more opportunities, which leads her to train with SAS. Kuh pressured her even more and made objections on her behaviour as a soldier. It almost felt like he was jealous over her for being acknowledged by a globally renowned organisation. Restrictions and societal norms had been the bane of her existence and this old man seemed to be the amalgam of it all. Fuck this. She felt like there wasn’t a single place to nurture her potential. There was no vision being in the Korean society, so she hacks and gets what she wants. A new society that won't force her to be someone she isn’t. When she was announced to be transferred into Team Rainbow, General Kuh is shocked because he always disregarded Dokkaebi as someone who can’t amount to anything. He had been open about putting her down, so the fact that she joined somewhere more renowned than his squad hurts his petty pride. So he sends Vigil, who has been the most efficient and obedient one in the White Tiger. Little did Kuh knew that Vigil actually admired Dokkaebi for being so openly ambitious. Her personality of being subtly forward was something that he couldn't do because he was still stuck in that stage of 'if I am quiet, nothing bad will happen.' So he tried to hang out with Dokkaebi a lot, which made her think Vigil as 'Kuh's spy.'

Now, her psychological profile says that she is scared of making mistakes, fearing it will ruin her career. She knew her usual façade of playing innocent to catch people off guard won’t work in England. It's all up to her skills and prowess. She also missed her family but if she went back, if felt like everything will be ruined. On top of that, this North Korean prick was always following around her and drove her insane. 

One day she got a phone call from her mum. Her birthday was yesterday but Dokkaebi was too busy to remember. They talk about general well-being and it was very apparent that her mum tried to keep the mood casual. 

"I believe in you, hun. My strong baby. Don't mind us here, you do what you need to do, okay? I am so proud of you, experiencing the bigger world out there. I love you so much."

When Dokkaebi ended the call, a little bit of her heart broke down. What the fuck was she doing here? What was so important here in England to the point of making her forget about her family? Why was she still keeping her façade on when she didn’t even need it here? Her act of being girly became a habit. Why wasn't she accepted in her home country? Why did she had to kick herself out and thrive in this foreign land? So she cried and cried, threw and broke everything in her room. She wanted to go out and buy anything that tastes like soju but someone stopped her. It’s that fucking prick Vigil.

He loomed over her and blocked the entrance. She tried to walk past him but he kept getting in her way. So she spat at him and asked "What the fuck is up with you?" to which Vigil replied "it's past our curfew." 

They argue and Dokkaebi ended up punching him in the stomach. She ran past him but eventually got caught up. They fought again, exchanged fisticuffs till they tired each other out.

"Did you go easy on me?" Dokkaebi groaned while massaging her cheeks.

"I don't go easy on comrades." Vigil coughed in pain and this is the moment when Dokkaebi thought different of Vigil. They started to talk more, and argue a lot too. It's not a friendship built within a day but rather a gradual development. 

-and that's the end of Dokkaebi’s story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hibana comments on how Vigil should have acted better and Echo looks either impressed or bored. But Vigil and Dokkaebi knows they would have fought one way or the other.


	15. Craze Haze (Smoke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spontaneous inspiration for an operator who is equally as random.  
> There is an implication of Smoke/Mute

There sits a man who is infamous for his love of havoc. Quietly in a biohazard laboratory while tending his beaut of canisters. Even an idiot such as himself has some knowledge of chemical precision but only because of the fact that the toxic extracts must be poured into the vessels with utmost care. Cautiousness isn't part of his nature but it's a minimal requirement in his career. He suppresses unruliness and then unleashes them onto those terrorist vermin. A justified chaos, if you will.

However, there are some nights he has this peculiar urge. Tranquility in a closed space suffocates him and he wants to break it. Muscles shudder, body jolts and brain is wired. There are so many things he can do right at this moment and nothing can stop him. Yeah, things like him stretching his arms forward to sweep off the glass equipment aside and let them all fall into smithereens. That’s some astrological amount of financial damage but is he afraid of the consequences? What would be the consequence anyway? Possibly deduction of his income or court martial if at worst. Quite a boring result for the price of watching glitters beneath the table. 

He could give in to the electricity that runs mad in his veins and jump up to kick over the entire table. Not just letting things fall; he is the one who is shoving everything down on the floor and pour lethal smokes in this room. Entire air will be deadly and he will have to wriggle in pain as if he is dancing himself into the tomb. Then he would rip part of his clothes off to cover his mouth. A series of instilled actions that comes from survival instinct. Crawling on the ground like the worm that he is, pitifully and desperately seeking a means to escape this self-inflicted life-or-death situation. What a way to go. James looks up and wonders if purgatory is above because he is so high on adrenaline right now. Hm, there is something disappointing on the ceiling. Of course there is a fire alarm to notify any anomalies that happens within the laboratory. It’s built to detect gaseous hazard and notify medical personnel, so James is very likely to be sent to the emergency room and resuscitated. Fuck that. Hospital food is worse than soggy fish and chips. 

Consider. Think that he could crush the flask with sheer gripping force. Take off the safety gloves, clench those fists that’s trained for boxing and allow the liquid poison to seep into his pores. Then knocks everything off by thrashing around the room in agony. Pain translates into uncoordinated flails. He would bang his forehead on the wall multiple times and scream until blood drips out. That could work. Simple enough. Head trembles in indecision while heartbeat rises with heavy breathing. Curiosity is a morbid curse for mortal beings. Even though the outcome is very clear and extreme, there is a part of James that doesn’t believe the logic until he experiences a first-hand evidence. Fingers curl in and stiff tendons begin to jerk into an action. One big squeeze. That is all. A corner of his lip twitches in anticipation-

“James.” Yes, that’s him. The name that has gained a special meaning when it’s said by someone unexpectedly precious.

“Mark.” James replies and turns around. He stares and gives Mark a delayed grin.

“What’s taking you so long? Aren’t coming with us to downtown?” 

“Huh.” That isn’t a confused remark; it’s rather an acknowledgement. “Yeah. Yeah sure. Bet you’ll need me to liven up the night out.” James glances at Mark and looks back at his hand. The effort to open his tense fingers is the only reminder of the dark places that his consciousness was in. Now that James has found a different place to spend his energy at, there is no need for an abnormal tendency. And that puts an end to whatever the madness James have been thinking of. It came without a reason, so it shall dissipate into the void whence it came from. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'dancing into the tomb' bit came from this song  
> https://youtu.be/GMfjA4gyEcU


	16. 3am stream of consciousness (Finka)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vent fic that ended up reassuring myself.

This is why humans aren't built to stay up until 3am. The danger of liminality soaks one's consciousness with melancholy and anxiety. No amount of logical reasonings can chase away the helplessness. The philosophical debate starts with the introspections of human nature. Then the trail of thought descend into primal needs such as fear of death and erasure of one's existence. Those two topics seem vastly different but they are within the same theme. What is life? Why do we live? What is the use of living when we die? How is everything related and yet irrelevant; the ouroboros of dilemma. There is no use of thinking about questions that can't be answered immediately. That's when curiosity steps away from the abstract wonders. It comes closer to her and brings questions that are more relevant in her life. When will she find the cure? Why does she fear the inevitable? Where is she going with her life? How long does she have to live the life she wants? Her resolve wanes because at times she is too afraid of facing the reality. She wants the inquisitive voice to stop because all these questions devolve into doubts and anxiety.

_ Of course they are personal. You are just a flesh and bone on this plane of existence. Philosophical truth is beyond your comprehension. You wanted to think about something high and mighty so you don't have to worry about problems that's laid out right in front of your nose. Finding the purpose of life won't give any meanings to your neuropathy. _

Slap in the back. Time is running out and her patience is running thin. She succumbs to paranoia at times and paints every little mishaps as symptoms of her body failing. No matter her effort to remain calm, progresses are too slow and minute while setbacks are devastating. 

Here comes the dreading self-pity. What if she didn't have to rely on adrenalin that's scraping her lifespan off? If she could be in science fiction and clone a healthy vessel by using stem cells? If she could make a time machine to buy her indefinite amount of time to find a cure?  _ What if she was born normal? _

That's when she bites her cheeks to snap out of wishful thoughts. Normal is nothing but a social construct. Of course she isn't normal. Despite her condition, she is fit enough to fight against terrorists while being a member of the elite Spetsnaz. All because neuropathy has pushed her potentials to extremes. She studied out of desperation and spite against her condition, and it ironically became a medical break through that helped in saving lives. Those aren't feeble accomplishments and nobody dares to disrespect her.

_ Yes, nobody. That includes you, Lera. _

Finally the voice stops taunting her. Although this sudden surge of confidence may be temporary, it's what she needs in this moment. At least she can pick herself up when doubts put her down. And the best part of this is that she doesn't even need her glove to do so. 

_ You've got this. Always have, always will. Reflect and replenish. Now go the fuck to sleep _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending bit is a reference to this audio  
> https://youtu.be/Udj-o2m39NA  
> I know, I've got a strange way to end a rushed ficlet but it's 5am here now and I will have no regret. Maybe regret will double up the next day but yall 0x2 is still 0 so yes I know what I am saying while I really don't know.


	17. Assurance (Maverick/Glaz)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet that I wrote for an OTP ask meme in my tumblr blog. Inspirational credit goes to [Jayvee11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayvee11/pseuds/Jayvee11) as he has said:  
> '25: Who needs more assurance?   
> I feel this can be answered in two ways: I think in terms of “who comes to the other more for assurance with day to day life problems”, it’s Glaz who comes to Maverick, or Maverick seeing the signs of Glaz struggling with art block, or social stress, or the usual problems that come with being a soldier, and serves as a calming force in Glaz’s life.
> 
> But in terms of “who finds them self opening up about their past late at night after some gentle prodding from the other, who repeatedly tells them it’s going to be okay”, Mav finds himself in that position, slowly coming to terms with his mental scars and how they’ve affected him, Glaz being gentle and not forcing him to lay it out all at once.'
> 
> So I wanted to expand that with a ficlet.

When the team’s residential painter sits still in front of an empty canvas, people may assume that he is deep in concentration. A lot of their colleague have seen the sharpshooter in action, or rather inaction because they assume a sniper’s role is to perch somewhere far away and crouch like a gargoyle for a shot. They aren’t but Glaz doesn’t bother to correct them. He can’t explain every little thought process that goes into his head while preparing for a shot. Not just any shot; it’s best to land a precise and clean head shot rather than sloppy spray of bullets. 

However, art is different. It may be planned or spontaneous, but the common factor of creating an art piece is that the creator must be moving. They must continue to experiment and expand with pencil, paintbrush or even a piece of clay. Being a sniper and an artist require some degree of being attuned to details, and yet they have difference paces of reaching to a conclusion. Instantly deleting and slowly creating an existence - that’s the irony of what Glaz do. 

Therefore Glaz isn’t happy with himself at this moment, where he is just staring into a blank space. Although nothing is worse than leaving a paint to dry, he is tempted to crack a new shade of blue open, and wonders that will motivate him to at least paint  _something._ Maybe he could do something with brown by mixing it with red. Make himself an in-between of maroon and burgundy, then splatter it to taint the purity of white. He could work with it as it could remind him of boiled strawberry for a kompot. The inner vein of the fruit, the delicious mixture of red and white like muscles and tendons. Funnily enough, blood would look brownish when it stains on clothes, just like that time when he saw that boy bleeding in his parents’ arms from Beslan. Limp, lifeless in midst of the sadness boiling into rage-

“Tim.” A soft touch awakens Glaz from his trance. The Russian leans back and smiles when his weight is supported by someone who he loves. Maverick smiles back and bends down for a kiss. 

“You reek of booze. This better be that kvass I made for you.” Glaz furrows upon smelling a hint of alcohol.

“Would you be less mad if I say it was vodka from Senaviev’s flask?” Maverick chuckles.

“No. I was going to ask you to save me some,” Glaz sighs and pulls Maverick closer, inviting the man to sit on his laps, “because nothing comes out of my brain tonight.”

“Does it have to come out tonight?” Maverick adjusts to make himself more comfortable.

“No, but it would be nice to have something painted at least once a fortnight. And it’s been more than a month.” Glaz leans his head against the firm and sturdy back in front of him. The familiar sweet scent puts his mind at ease, but only by a little. Curse his restless dilemma.

“Look,” Maverick shifts and turns so he faces Glaz, “you can’t force this. That’s just how it is, Timur. Where is the fun in life if everything beautiful and wondrous are  _scheduled?_  Nature has their own rules but they don’t think about it. It happens because it’s meant to happen. Don’t trap yourself in obligations that aren’t for you. You are the boss in whatever you do.”

“Aren’t you a wise man?” Glaz smiles and he can feel it becoming wider as warmth grows within his heart.

“Smart that I am, but wise? I will have to think about that.” Maverick plants a kiss on Glaz’s forehead. 

“Don’t be too humble now.”

“Just speaking the truth.” The American holds the other’s hands, which allows Glaz to have a closer look on the famed tattoo. A question arises; the similar kind of curiosity that struck Glaz ever since they started going out. Is this the right time to ask about it? Those robbed two years of his lover’s life? No. Glaz has waited for Maverick to open up first and he prefers to wait longer, because some things are better told without being asked.

“Why do you think that you aren’t wise?” Suppose that’s okay to ask. Although it sounds like a distraction for himself, Glaz is genuinely curious of what Maverick really meant.

“Because there is only so much that a cleverness can do,” Maverick moves his arms behind Glaz’s neck, obscuring his tattoo, “knowing a lot means I need to make use of that information. If I am wise, I would know how to dispose of them for my own good.”

“You make it sound like we are machines,” Glaz softly cups Maverick’s cheeks, “we can’t add and delete what we see, love. But we can take in what’s in front of us and either let it out or keep it in. I guess I’m the kind who likes to let it out through arts and crafts.” And perhaps through a legalised murder, within the right justice.

“Promise me one thing.” Maverick grins and leans closer.

“Anything, Erik.”

“Promise me that you will be there when I find a way to let it out. When I finally wise up.” They share a slow kiss, the one that allow each other to match their breathing and sway in a gentle rhythm.

“I promise, within all my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can check the other answered OTP meme questions of Mav/Glaz here ;)](https://grain-crain-drain.tumblr.com/post/182241603843/6-8-11-23-24-and-25-for-galzmav)


End file.
